Page 41 of Organized Chaos
“This is the hundredth competition your brother has signed you up for.” Brandon rose from the bed and strolled to my desk. “Your desk is a fucking mess.”
Despite my age, Brandon never spoke with a filter around me. That included cursing, lots of it. At least, he didn’t reprimand me for speaking like an adult or lied to me whenever I asked him grown-up questions.
“What are you looking for?” I stared quizzically at his back.
“Fuck. Is this a candy wrapper? Can’t even find a pen in this disaster zone. Is disorganization the price you paid to become a genius?”
I rolled my eyes. Brandon called me a mad scientist. He was immaculate, whereas I was haphazard, but I was in no mood to clean up. “If you don’t stop giving me shit, I’ll tell my brother that I learned all my curse words from you.”
“No one likes a tattletale,” he chided inattentively though I knew Brandon didn’t care. In fact, he loved to antagonize and would probably enjoy going head-to-head with Milo.
Brandon returned, a rollerball pen and a bunch of vintage-style script paper in hand. “These are the only blank pieces of paper I could find.”
“It was for an art project to make a Victorian-styled book.”
“Do you still need them?”
“No. But what are we using them for?”
“To write your story,” he replied easily.
“Now?” I sat up, legs crossed.
“No time like the present.” Brandon shuffled the blank parchment papers and handed me the pen.
“I guess,” I said tentatively, tucking free strands of hair behind my ear.
“How do you want to start?”
I shrugged. “We need a storyline... and a name for the protagonist.”
“Maya,” Brandon suggested without a second thought.
Jealousy sank into me at his hasty response. “Came up with that pretty quickly. New girlfriend?” I half-heartedly laughed, though my insides were frozen.
Brandon playfully punched me under the jaw. “Maya sounds just like Mia. It’ll be easy to write a character and story based on yourself.”
Feeling bold, I blurted out, “Then we should also write a character just like you.” I thought for a second. “Bran. Brany. No, wait. Bran-Bran.”
A playful smile tugged at his lips. Brandon didn’t protest the emasculating name, much too comfortable in his own skin. “Mathews,” he declared instead.
“Excuse me?”
“Her full name—Maya Mathews.”
I blinked at his determined face to get on with it. With a heavy sigh, I put pen to paper, unconvinced this “Maya Mathews” was made up, considering how quickly he procured it. I was shocked when Brandon, of all people, proposed that we write a love story.
“Will there be any sex scenes in this love story?”
“No.” He didn’t flinch but added as an afterthought, “Aren’t you a little young to know about sex scenes?”
“Raven already gave me the bird and the bees convo. She said kids in New York City were too fast, and I needed to learn this information from reliable sources rather than be misinformed.”
“Little too young for that talk if you ask me,” he mumbled.
“But I have known about sex for years. It’s the union of genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements.”
“What do you mean you have known for years?” Brandon lurched back in shock.
